


should auld acquaintance be forgot?

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 18:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17048234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: The Doctor unintentionally finds himself crossing paths with Rose Tyler the year before they met. | Written for/winner of Challenge 48 at then_theres_us at LJ many moons ago.





	should auld acquaintance be forgot?

“I’m in the mood for a night out,” Amy announced one evening, dropping down onto the couch and swinging her feet into Rory’s lap. “Somewhere loud and hot and _exciting_.”

“I could be up for that,” her husband agreed, rubbing her ankles. “It’s been ages since we went to a club. Or a pub.”

“Not really my thing,” the Doctor said, pulling a disgusted face before squinting at his reflection and tightening his bowtie. Just why there was a mirror hanging off a bookcase in the library was beyond Amy and Rory, but at least the swimming pool had relocated itself to the greenhouse. 

“Really?” Amy said incredulously. “What’s not to like about them? Booze and interesting people and music you can feel in your bones. And dancing! What about the dancing? I know you like dancing.”

“ I’ve got the moves,” the Doctor agreed modestly. “But the whole club… scene… thingie, I don’t know…”

But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? He used to enjoy a good pub crawl (there’d always be at least _one_ place that could do a good banana daiquiri), and a game of pool could be fun (he loved seeing the looks of disbelief on the drunks’ faces when he managed a behind-the-back combo), and dancing was fun, oh yes…

But that had been another lifetime. Another him. And he hadn’t been alone; he wasn’t now, he knew, but it was a very different thing going to a club with Amy and Rory and going with _her_ — 

“Oh, come _on_ , Doctor,” Amy pleaded, pulling on one of her best puppy dog expressions, pouting her dark red lips. Rory grinned, knowing full well that the Doctor was just as vulnerable to Amy’s faces as he was. 

“Ohhhh, alright,” he groaned in reluctant surrender. “How does London, 3012 sound? The clubs there have tactile music—you can literally see and feel the notes.”

“Great!” Amy and Rory chimed in unison.

\---

“You’re not seriously going to a club in that?” Amy demanded.

“Amelia Jessica Pond, when are you going to accept that bowties are _cool_?” he replied impatiently. 

“You look like a professor!” she complained, skipping to catch up, throwing Rory off balance, dragging him in her wake like a balloon. “We’re going to a _club_ club, not a book club.”

“Why are you always so preoccupied with my clothes?” the Doctor lamented. “You don’t complain when your father wears a bowtie.”

“Well, yeah, that’s because he’s my wee tiny Dad,” Amy said. “Dads do that sort of thing.”

“Then try to remember that _I_ was a dad, and a granddad,” the Doctor said. “I’m old enough to be your great-great-great-great-great-great… great-times-a-lot-granddad. And how does that saying go? ‘Respect your elders’?”

“But you look about twelve,” Amy pointed out.

“Oh leave him alone, Amy,” Rory spoke up quickly, eager to mollify everyone. “Maybe tweed jackets with elbow patches are all the rage in the year 3000.”

“This doesn’t look very futuristic,” Amy noticed. “Not that I expected flying cars or purple people, but you’d think a thousand years in the future things would be a _little_ more swish.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor said noncommittally, pausing in front of a large building. The doors had been thrown open to the chilly, damp night. Booming music spilled out, carried along by the unsteady twenty-somethings leaving and trickling in, most laughing, some leaning on each other for support. 

“This place looks interesting,” Amy said approvingly. “I love when people turn old warehouses into restaurants and stuff. Can we check it out, Doctor?”

He stared up at the neon sign. 

**THE BAD WOLF**.

He looked down at his gold watch. “This isn’t 3012,” he announced as flippantly as he could. “It’s 2003. In fact, it’s the last day of 2003.”

“New Year’s Eve?” Rory said, grinning. “Brilliant! Remember what we did, Amy?”

“Um, played Scrabble for three hours, stole a bottle of Aunt Sharon’s wine, and fell asleep after two glasses before it was even midnight,” Amy recalled. “…This is going to be so much better. C’mon, let’s relive the night! How many people can brag that they had a chance to do-over a New Year’s?”

They rushed inside, hands intertwined, giggling.

The Doctor watched them, his hearts thudding painfully in his chest. The way they leaned towards one another, the way their fingers were locked together, the laughter between them—the stab of envy was unexpected and sharp. He took a deep breath, settled the jacket more firmly on his shoulders, and followed them inside.

\---

There were glowing disco balls hanging from the ceiling. The main lights had been turned down and these were the only illumination, and as they spun silver diamond-shaped flecks of light moved across flushed faces and bright eyes, making everything feel just this edge of surreal and dreamlike. It was amusing: how the alien-ness of humans sometimes struck the Doctor.

The heat in here was oppressive after the nippy air outside. Amy had hurried over to his seat by the bar fifteen minutes ago to deposit her and Rory’s coats and scarves in his lap—she’d mumbled something about taking them to the coatroom, if he could find it, thanks so much, Doctor—before she’d rushed off to reclaim her spot on the dance floor.

He sipped at his seltzer water (with a slice of lime) and tried to enjoy the atmosphere. The clothes were eye-catching, the gelled hairstyles endearing in their ridiculousness, and the music wasn’t half bad. It was an all-girl band, and they were currently doing a set of classic rock songs with "modern" twists. This cover of “Bohemian Rhapsody” was really good, in fact, though the lead singer/guitarist had nothing on Freddie’s range. He liked her style, too—she was wearing a dress straight from the 1940s, and had her pitch black hair styled in the tight waves of the period. On her right forearm was a large tattoo—a pink and purple rose.

His mouth felt very dry despite the seltzer. It had been another lifetime, but the pain never really quite left him. He doubted it ever would. Things became easier with time and distance, but then there’d be a moment like now—he’d see the words she had scattered, he’d hear one of her favorite songs, he’d order some chips—and he’d feel her loss as keenly as that day on the windswept beach. 

Everything was too loud, too hot, too _human_ , and he suddenly felt like he was suffocating. The stool squeaked as he pushed it back, but there was no one to hear it—there was a brunette girl sitting at the far end of the bar texting on her mobile, but everyone else in the club was dancing out on the floor. 

Picking up Amy and Rory’s things, the Doctor made his way to the far end of The Bad Wolf Club in search of a coatroom and some quiet.

It so happened that there _was_ a coatroom, sandwiched between the bathrooms. Jackets hung askew on listing, bent hangers. The floor was covered in gloves and crushed hats. There was the smell of stale perfume, cologne, sweat, and old cigarettes. 

_Sometimes they’re just like children_ , the Doctor thought to himself with a sigh. What was it about humans that made them make such messes? It was like they needed to prove their existence to the universe; all of the things they left lying about or floating up in space, all of the transmissions and broadcasts and—

“Oh! I’m sorry.”

He looked down at the unexpected voice. He’d just pushed aside a long coat in search of a free hanger and uncovered a teenage girl crouched down against the wall, her pink mobile in one hand and tear trails bright against the foundation on her cheeks. 

For one long moment he stared at her in silence, his hearts thunderous in his ears, his throat tight, his lungs empty. 

He stared at Rose Tyler and wondered what the hell he should do.

“I can move, if you need me to,” she said finally, brown eyes wide and a bit fearful. He realized he must look strange, looming over her with his arms full of coats, his face tight and apprehensive.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” he managed to say, swallowing compulsively. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m the one hiding in the coats,” Rose said, a shaky, rueful smile creeping across her face. 

“Why _are_ you hiding in the coats?”

“Just wanted to get away,” she said fervently, eyes flicking towards the door. “Had a row with the mate I came here with. Needed to be alone.”

“We have something in common then—not the row bit,” he added quickly. “Just the wanting to get away part. Mind if I join you? That sort of defeats the purpose of ‘being alone’, but sometimes misery wants company, hmm?”

“Uh, sure,” she said after a split second’s hesitation. “What’s your name?”

“John,” he supplied quickly, tossing the coats aside and sitting, pressing his back to the wall beside her, folding his long legs awkwardly. “And what’s yours?”

“Rose. Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said, smiling. It was a comfortable, familiar smile—the smile he’d given her dozens of times before, and somehow it still fit on this new, blocky face. “So… Got any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Yeah, my first is to chuck Jimmy Stone,” she said with a great deal of bitterness. “My Mum was right about him—which is probably a first for her, bloke-wise.” She looked down at her hands—the pink nail polish was chipped and uneven. 

He wanted to take her hand in his so badly; he could feel the tension building in his arms as he restrained himself, knowing he’d only frighten her. He looked at the floor for a moment to steady himself. 

“How about you?”

“What?” He looked up, off-balanced.

“Got any resolutions?”

“…Not really. I try not to make too many plans; they never happen just the way I intended. I’m more a live-in-the-moment sort of guy.”

“That’s smart, I think,” Rose said with sincerity. “I wish I could be more like that. Life’s so boring, you know? It’s all schedules and appointments and responsibilities. People tell you to go to classes, to go to work—but what if you don’t want to? What if you’re tired of telly every night and getting up early every morning? I hate it.”

“Why do you live like that, then?” he asked quietly. “Why not just run off and do what you want?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she smiled for a moment. “But I can’t. I mean, you’ve gotta have money to travel. Real money. More than what I make at the shop. And Mum would worry too much—I couldn’t just run off and leave her.”

“But what if,” he said slowly. “What if there was a way around all of that? What if you _didn’t_ need money, and there was a way to see your mother whenever you needed to?”

She laughed. “Are we playing twenty questions? Okay, I’m game: sure, then I’d run off in a heartbeat. Just as long as I really felt _alive_ , yeah? Got to see really cool stuff and meet neat people. What do you do, John?”

“I… Fix things. People have problems, I help them out.”

“I sorta expected you to say ‘accounting’,” she grinned. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a repairman, in that jacket.”

“Well,” he flushed awkwardly.

“No, no, I like it,” she said quickly. “It looks good on you. Suits you. I don’t know many blokes that could pull off a bowtie and braces at a club, but on you they look nice.”

He grinned, a hot surge of elation coursing through his veins. Of _course_ Rose would understand…

\---

He was a bit odd looking; he definitely wouldn’t blend into a crowd. Not really her type, Rose thought, though to be fair she didn’t really think she _had_ a type. Most girls said they preferred nice arms, or blue eyes, or tight bums, but not Rose Tyler. It all depended on the man—what looked good on one would look ridiculous on another, and it was stupid to expect to find one man with all of the ‘qualities’ you wanted. Sometimes she thought she fancied the strong, silent types, but then she’d find herself ogling the bookish ones.

This John character, though, was about as far from typical as you could imagine. He was all long lines and sharp angles, with a jutting brow that should have made him look like a caveman and yet — on him — somehow managed to convey a great deal of intelligence and force of personality. She couldn’t decide what color his eyes were—hazel? grayish blue?—and while his hair could probably stand to see some product, she also liked the way it flopped over half of his face. 

She had a bit of an urge to reach up and muss it, but decided that would be an impolite thing to do with a complete stranger. 

Funny, though, how he didn’t _feel_ like a stranger. 

Yes, he _looked_ strange, and she knew she'd never seen him before in her life. But something about his eyes, and the way he looked at her… She felt oddly comfortable with him, this gangly man who gave off a nearly tangible air of clumsiness and friendly good intentions.

“Your turn,” she prompted.

\---

“For a question?”

“Yep.”

“Uhhh, what’s your favorite food?” He knew it already, had known it forever, but it felt like the sort of question someone would ask a new acquaintance.

“Chips, definitely,” she said without hesitation. “They’re just about the perfect food, don’t you think? They can be soft or crunchy, and salty and mmmmh, I’m gettin’ hungry just thinkin’ about them. How old are you?”

“…How old do you think I am?”

“Hmmmm, I’d say… twenty-five?”

“Really?”

“Yeah? How far off am I?”

“…I’m twenty-four, actually,” he lied smoothly. 

“I’m almost seventeen,” she said. “That’s a bit of an age gap.”

“Not a terrible one, though.”

“Even so, I bet I seem like a kid to you, huh?”

“No, not at all. You’re very mature for your age. An ‘old soul’, some might say.”

“Thanks,” she grinned, face positively glowing in the murky light. “Next question?”

“Umm…” This was more difficult than he would have thought, pretending to not know her. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Oh, I dunno. I used to be crazy about gymnastics—used to be pretty good at it, too—but I can’t really be bothered with that these days. I guess I like going to the movies. I _usually_ like going dancing and to shows and stuff. Are you trying to ask me out or something?” She grinned, and there was that pink tongue he knew so well, peeking out between her teeth. Even at sixteen-nearly-seventeen, it was the same mischievous grin, the same hint of the passion and fire that lay beneath that girlish exterior. 

He was so focused on that smile, so lost in wanting her, that her next question took him completely unaware. 

“What’s the one thing in your past that you’d change if you could?” She asked it blithely, with innocent curiosity. He met her eyes fully for a heartbeat, all of his regret and sadness—that empty ache inside of him that she’d left in her brilliant wake—fully on display. He blinked quickly and looked away, but she had seen it all, and it was clear by her stricken expression that she regretted her question. 

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. Her touch made him shiver, his whole body yearning for her; she leaned closer, mistaking it for a shudder of repressed tears. “I’m really sorry, John. I just wondered, I mean…”

Oh, Rose. Rose and her sweet, complete empathy. Such purity of heart was hard to find in this universe, and it made him love her with an intensity that was painful.

“There’s a lot I regret in my life,” he said finally, voice husky and heavy. “There’s a lot I would change, if I could. But sometimes things happen because they have to. Sometimes people _have_ to die. Or leave. Words are left unsaid because saying them would be even more painful. Sacrifices happen because that’s how the universe is—something can be perfect for only so long before it has to end, or is lost, or taken away.”

She stared at him, eyes wide and full of sympathy, hand still on his arm. He gave in to the temptation and laid his larger hand over hers, squeezing gently, savoring the soft beat of life beneath her skin, the soft warmth of her. 

“That’s why I’m such a live-in-the-moment kind of guy, Rose,” he said softly, his eyes tracing the lines of her face. He thought he had memorized every one of them, but he didn’t remember that particular laugh line, that precise freckle beside her nose. “Anything can be lost in the blink of an eye. You’ve got to enjoy it, love it, hold it as tightly as you can while you’ve still got it. Before you lose it.”

Her heart constricted in her chest. Whatever had happened to this poor, funny-looking man must have been truly horrible. He must have lost someone incredibly important to him; she knew she couldn’t fully understand that kind of pain. Yes, she missed her father — but then she had never known him, either. Whoever John had lost, it had to have been recent for his pain to be so raw and powerful. 

Suddenly, Rose didn’t care about her row with Sherine, or how Jimmy Stone had cheated on her, or that this was a complete stranger. She only knew that she had to do something

“John, do you like to dance?” she heard herself saying.

He blinked at her for a moment. “…Yes?”

“Good. Then I think we should go have a dance. And I’m gonna buy you a drink. Because it’s New Year’s and we shouldn’t be spending it in a coatroom. We should be having fun. Celebrating. Because it’s a new year, and that means new chances and new people and a fresh start.”

She stood resolutely. Held out her hand to him. 

And he took it, because she was Rose Tyler and he was the Doctor and some hands were made for each other.

\---

The club looked vastly different when they stepped out of the coatroom hand-in-hand (and oh, how blessed it felt to be holding Rose Tyler’s hand again). The band had set aside their instruments, replaced by soft, piped-in music from the club’s sound system. The dance floor was nearly empty; only a few couples remained, moving slowly, arms around one another. Amy and Rory were visible just in front of the stage, his arms around her waist, hers around his neck. They were staring intently at one another, whispering inaudibly in-between gentle kisses. The small tables and booths on the periphery were full of people chatting loudly, tossing back drinks, glancing up at the clock as the minute hand crept closer to midnight.

“You know how to slow dance, right?” Rose asked, raising an eyebrow. How he had missed that eyebrow…

“I think I’ll manage,” he murmured, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her onto the floor. 

He remembered the first time they had danced, around the TARDIS, big band music blaring from the console. He’d stepped on her feet at first. Nearly put her in a half-nelson before remembering how to jitterbug. He remembered the Ambassador’s Ball, when she had worn that pale blue dress that glowed in the candlelight. They had waltzed for hours, it seemed, and by the last dance she was pressed close to him, her cheek against his shoulder, half-asleep and incredibly soft in his arms. He remembered swaying with the crowds at Woodstock, keeping tight hold of her hand so as not be separated in the euphoric press full of smoke and flowers and rebellious music.

And here he was again, dancing with Rose Tyler. She was a little awkward on her feet, still growing into her grace and confidence, but she was just as soft and warm in his arms. She still pressed close to him like a flower leaning towards the sun. And her golden face was smiling up at him with all of the flushed excitement of youth, her lips a dark cherry red, her hair a little darker than the first time he’d seen her. 

“You seem like a really nice bloke, John,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, Rose.” He hesitated, catching the words before they slipped past his lips.

“What?” she asked, grinning. He really did look cute when he was nervous and awkward. “What were you gonna say?”

“I was going to say you look really beautiful tonight. And thank you for the dance, because it’s improved my night exponentially.”

“Oh, exponentially. Sure you’re not an accountant?”

“No, just got a head for numbers. Among other things.”

“Do you believe in destiny?”

“…I don’t know any more,” he replied honestly. “I used to believe in so many absolutes. But I’ve seen some impossible things happen—which is saying something by my standards. I know I don’t believe in coincidences. And it’s never a wise idea to ignore them. That much I’ll say.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m on the edge of something big and important—like the world’s about to lurch and throw me off. Like I’m waiting for something huge to hit me. Looking at you, I’ve got that feeling again.”

“Is this a good thing or a very not good thing?”

“I dunno. Haven’t figured that out yet. I guess it’s not important right now, though.”

“And why is that?”

“Because we’re dancing, and this is nice, and I don’t need to think about anything else right now.”

The last notes of the song died away. The dancers paused, waiting for the next to begin. But instead a loud murmur began to build as one of the bartenders rang a bell loudly.

“Fifteen more seconds left in 2003, people!” he shouted.

The Doctor looked at Rose, his arm still tight around her waist. She grinned up at him. 

“I love this tradition,” she shouted over the din as everyone began the countdown, drinks held high, noisemakers and horns at the ready.

“What tradition?” he shouted back.

“THREE!”

“TWO!”

“ONE!”

“This one!” she cried, grabbing hold of his lapels and pulling him into a kiss.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Everything was chaos and noise and confetti, and in the midst of it stood the Doctor and Rose Tyler, glitter in their hair and lips pressed tightly together. Rose may only be sixteen-going-on-seventeen, but at the present she was showing him just how practiced she already was at the art of kissing. 

He wrapped his arms around her fully, hands clenching at her shirt, brushing against the skin of her back as the material lifted. One of her hands was buried in the hair at his neck, her other grasping his shoulder. She was on her tip-toes, her weight falling against him, and he felt as though his hearts had gone supernova inside his chest. 

He was kissing Rose Tyler again, tasting the strawberry liquor that lingered on her tongue from her last drink, and her lips were just as perfect as he remembered. She still tilted her head just a _bit_ to the left, still made that delicious little sound in her throat when he trailed his hand down her back. 

And then it was over. She was pulling back, eyes glazed, hair and shirt mussed, lipgloss smudged. There was a distinctly stunned look about her as she pulled down her tee and struggled to recapture her absent breath.

“Blimey, John,” she murmured, blinking.

“Cor blimey, even,” he agreed faintly. His bowtie felt quite loose, but he didn’t take his eyes off of her. 

“ _There_ you are!” It was the brunette from the bar, looking simultaneously relieved and frustrated. “Rose, I’m sorry I said all of that shit—you know I didn’t mean it, right?”

“Yeah, Sherine, I know,” Rose said with a small smile. 

“For a while there I thought you’d run out on me.”

“I’d never leave you in a lurch like that,” Rose said reprovingly. 

“Listen, Mickey just called and said he and Mark and the others are going to crash at Billy’s place—there’s gonna be wine and frozen pizzas and stuff. Sound good?”

Rose looked over at the Doctor. “Wanna join us? Everyone’s really cool,” she said. “And Billy won’t mind an extra.”

For a fraction of a moment, he wanted to say yes. Anything to spend just a few more moments with her, for another chance for one last kiss—

But he looked over at Amy and Rory, who had finally finished their celebratory snog and were beginning to scan the dissipating crowd for him. And he looked back at Rose, the girl who would become a wolfish goddess and save creation in a matter of months. He smiled at the knowledge of what was to come for her, at the memories of every moment they had (would have) together.

And he remembered what he had said in the coatroom. Nothing was permanent, and some things couldn’t be changed. If he stayed any longer, none of it would happen the way it was meant to. And Rose Tyler had to become the Bad Wolf, had to become the defender of the universe, had to become even more brilliant and more fantastic than she was now. 

There was no way he could ruin that for her, for himself, for the universe.

“Thanks for the invitation,” he said sincerely, a bittersweet smile twisting his lips. “But I’ve got mates I need to stay with. Places to go, people to help — you know how it is.”

“Never let anything hold you back, right?” Rose said.

“Exactly. Thank you for tonight, Rose. For the talk and the dance and the kiss—for everything.”

“You’re very welcomed, John. If that kiss was as nice for you as it was for me…” She blushed vividly and he grinned with a touch of pride. “I hope the next year’s a better one for you—try to be happy, okay? There’s plenty out there to be optimistic about.”

“I’ll do my best.” He bent quickly and kissed her cheek. “Don’t stop dreaming, Rose Tyler,” he whispered in her ear. “Stay magnificent.”

And she was gone, disappearing out the door arm-in-arm with her friend, a flash of her golden hair the last thing he saw of her.

“Hey there, Doctor,” Amy said, punching his arm lightly. “Ready to go?”

“Onwards and upwards, Ponds,” the Doctor smiled.

\---

An hour later the Doctor walked into the kitchen to find a picture of domesticity. The kettle had been put on the stove, an extra-large bag of theatre-style popcorn was exploding in the microwave, and Amy had just checked on a tray in the oven. Rory was stirring a large bowl at the table, half of his attention on the book he’d propped up in front of his mug.

“Work up an appetite with all of that dancing?” the Doctor asked with a smile.

“You could say that. And what were _you_ doing all night?”

“Reminiscing.”

“Thought I saw you dancing with a pretty blonde near the end,” Rory spoke up, eyes still on his book.

“Yeah, well, what can I say,” the Doctor said, pulling at his braces with his hooked thumbs. “I’m irresistible.”

Amy snorted a laugh at his flippant manner. “Speaking of reminiscing…” The oven beeped, the door was opened with a billow of hot air, and out came a tray covered in:

“Fish fingers!” Amy announced proudly.

Rory held up the bowl he’d been stirring. “And custard.”

“Ta-da!” Amy said, sliding the golden brown sticks from the tray onto a large plate. “I’m sorry I was giving you such a rough time earlier—you know I like the bowtie, right? You were so grumpyface all night I wanted to make it up to you, and the thought just hit me: fish custard!”

“Ahhh, yes!” The Doctor laughed, clapping his hands together. “Amy Pond, you are brilliant! Just what I needed!”

At that moment, in his warm, bright kitchen with two good friends grinning at him from across the ancient table, that _was_ what the Doctor needed. There was always going to be a Rose-shaped hole in his life and heart, but she’d been right—it was important to stay happy and look to the future with optimism. 

And there weren’t many things more happy-inducing than a kiss from Rose Tyler followed by fish fingers and custard.


End file.
